


streetlights would carry us home

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Series: love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Jamie visits Glasgow because Stevie asked him to, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: “Come to mine sometime,” Stevie says, when the sweat is cooling and they’re laying in bed together. “Come visit me in Glasgow, J.”Jamie's never been able to say no to him, and it seems poor taste to start now. So he does.





	streetlights would carry us home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flamingosarepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingosarepink/gifts).



“Come to mine sometime,” Stevie says, when the sweat is cooling and they’re laying in bed together. “Come visit me in Glasgow, J.”

 

Jamie almost wants to say no. He doesn’t want Stevie to think that Glasgow is his. He doesn’t want to legitimate that by visiting and letting Stevie show him around. He doesn’t want to be part of building good memories for Stevie there, because what if he decides never to come back?

 

“During the next international break, I will,” he promises instead, “you’ll have to buy me a drink, though. I’m not a cheap date, Steven.”

 

“Dinner at the most expensive steakhouse I can think of good enough for you?”

 

He pretends to think it over. “Expensive by Glasgow standards or expensive by London standards?” he asks, grinning as Stevie pins him down for his cheek.

 

\---  


He goes. Of course he goes. Has he ever not done something that Stevie wanted him to do? He can only think of twice he’s had to say no to that smile, to those eyes pleading with him, and both times, he’d retired.

 

Stevie beams at him at the airport, surrounded by young Rangers fans and the odd Red all clamoring to talk to him or ask for an autograph. He signs all he can until Jamie gets to him, and then he apologizes, but says he has to go.

 

The Reds in the group look even more excited when they see Jamie with him, and Jamie bites the bullet by agreeing to pose for pictures with Stevie and signing the autographs blindly thrust in front of him.

 

Eventually they make their way out.

 

“Dinner, right?” Jamie asks him, and Stevie nods, gallant as he opens Jamie’s car door for him.

 

“I hope you don’t mind, I had the restaurant make it so we could just pick it up and eat at home. I thought that might be more comfortable.”

 

Jamie smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I didn’t come to Glasgow to see the restaurant. I came to see you.”

 

“Not just to _see_ me, I hope.”

 

Jamie flushes, amazed that this is all it takes, even after all these years, to turn him into a blushing schoolboy again.

 

“No. Not just that.”

 

They pull into Stevie’s driveway. Jamie can’t even wait to get out of the car before he’s kissing him. Stevie tastes so familiar, smells so familiar, and the feeling warms him from the inside out, that soft brown hair under his hands.

 

Stevie looks almost dazed as he looks back at him and Jamie’s stomach swoops low. It’s not just him, he realizes in that moment. He’s not the only one who feels it.

 

“I’m glad we ordered in,” Stevie says breathlessly, and Jamie laughs, helpless and happy to be that way.

 

Once they go inside, they kiss again and again. Even during dinner, they sit close together and even now and then, they take a break to learn each other again. Nothing much has changed since the last time, of course, but that doesn’t stop hands from being rested suggestively on thighs and sliding inwards, just pushing the boundaries…

 

They both know that if they push too far, the food will get cold and they’ll be in bed, wrestling each other’s clothes off and begging for it, utterly shameless because shame is a luxury that only people who have time can afford, and time is the one thing neither of them has enough of.

 

So they’re careful, and so they manage to get through dinner with heavy innuendos flying between bites, with looks so filthy and so utterly transparent they shouldn’t even be allowed. Jamie hadn’t even known Stevie was capable of undressing him with his eyes until this very moment, when his gut suddenly tightens under the heat of his gaze.

 

They leave the dirty dishes out and stumble up the stairs to bed, and after, when they’re exhausted and sated and utterly blissed out, Jamie remembers that his toothbrush is all the way downstairs, in his suitcase.

 

It’s too far away, and he falls asleep with the taste of Stevie on his tongue.

 

The next day, they go out, see Stevie’s favorite parts of Glasgow. Once they’ve had the first reunion, sightseeing doesn’t sound like just an obstacle to pass through before he gets to unbuckle Stevie’s belt and sink to his knees. It almost sounds fun, and his heart jumps every time Stevie leans in close to tell him what he loves about the city.

 

He tries to see it through Stevie’s eyes, tries to see it as something more than a weak replacement for Liverpool, and he can see why Stevie likes it so much. It’s similar to Liverpool—men like them are always most at home in working-class cities, and he knows Stevie felt too small in LA. He’s loved here, like he is at home, but on his own merits. He’s starting all over again, and it’s like the early years at Liverpool, where Stevie was loved because he was brilliant, before he became more than just a man, before he became a god that people prayed to without realizing he was just as fallible as they were.

 

They wander the city all day, and after grabbing a bite to eat, they wind back, closer and closer to Stevie’s home, until Stevie takes him by the arm and leads him into a bar.

 

It’s small and quiet, dimly lit with dark wood tables. The music is old, and the regulars match the crooning melodies of the Beatles, occasionally broken up by the Rolling Stones, sometimes Oasis. Stevie gets nods, and Jamie, for once, is the one who gets the second looks, and the third looks.

 

“They’re used to you,” he says, taken aback. Stevie just nods.

 

“I come here often. They’d be buying me a drink and talking about the match if I came in alone.”

 

Jamie looks around again, scrutinizing the men with their beards and the women with traces of gray in their hair that they haven’t bothered to hide. They look like good people. The sort of people he almost doesn’t mind sharing Stevie’s time with.

 

They take a seat at the bar, and their song begins playing, and he’d almost think it a bizarre coincidence if he hadn’t caught Stevie giving the bartender a grateful look.

 

Stevie leans in and croons, quietly so only Jamie can hear it.

 

_But of all these friends and lovers,_

_There is no one compares with you._

 

Jamie feels his face heating up as Stevie continues the verse, joining in for the last line, voice low and hoarse.

 

_In my life, I love you more._

 

They drink their beers slowly, and try and fail to keep the searing eye contact to a minimum. But every time one of them looks away and then looks back, they meet the other’s eyes. The façade of disinterest isn’t worth the time it takes away from them anyway.

 

After the first drink, they have another, and Stevie talks to him about his new team, talks and talks about different tactical setups and warm weather training camps and Jamie looks into his eyes and wonders how they look so wonderfully warm, watches his lips curve into a smile.

 

Finally, he presses his thigh against Stevie’s, the weight hot and intentional and an unmistakable message between the two of them. Stevie pays the check and they leave the bar.

 

“It’s dark outside,” Jamie says, not quite realizing how stupid it sounds until Stevie gives him a look, crooked smile suggesting that _yes, that is pretty normal for nighttime, James, very good._

 

“I mean darker than it gets in Liverpool. You can see more stars here,” Jamie corrects, blushing at having looked like an idiot.

 

Stevie looks up, craning his neck for a long, silent moment. Jamie takes the opportunity to brush his fingers against Stevie’s, just subtly. It wouldn’t do to be too obvious, after all, not here, not in the city where Stevie works where they can’t brush it off as drunken affection between two close friends.

 

Stevie entwines their fingers and squeezes for a moment before he lets go, head finally facing forward again. “It is dark,” he agrees, “and it’s getting late. Time for me to get you home, J. You’ve got your flight tomorrow morning.”

 

He does. Jamie hates the reminder and loves it, all at once. Suddenly each moment, each touch, each look becomes infinitely more valuable, becomes something he can hoard and go through when he’s back to being alone, the way he always is.

 

So he agrees, and they walk back to Stevie’s house.

 

He’d called it a home, Jamie remembers, and tries to puzzle out whether he should be jealous of that, whether he should read into the fact that Stevie fits here, whether that should feel threatening.

 

He gives up the puzzle when they’re lying in bed, Stevie’s chest pressed against his, breath slowing back down to normal, skin bare and everywhere for the touching.

 

So he does, stroking his fingers up and down Stevie’s spine while he thinks about that word. Home.

 

In the end, he knows who his home is, and if Stevie’s happy, he can’t begrudge him that. He presses a kiss to that sweat-dampened hair and checks the alarm on his phone to make sure they can wake up and be ready in time for Stevie to drop him off at the airport before Rangers training starts in the morning.

 

“Love you,” he says quietly, smiling as he hears the words mumbled back against his neck.

 

Jamie closes his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to flamingosarepink, who came up with the idea, sent me the inspiration, AND followed up on it so I could get reinspired and then promptly write the whole thing in one sitting


End file.
